Yesterday I drove up to Bellingham to spend the afternoon with Susannah, Michael, and baby Hank. We had a great time eating the latest mutant cookie creations by Susannah (how does she manage to make the world’s most obscenely good vanilla/butterscotch/chocolate chip cookies and remain such a wee thing?), discussing everything from baby constipation to the human capacity for suffering (unrelated, by the way). I also got to spend some quality time with their kitten, Meko, who I renamed “Flaticia” for perhaps obvious reasons.

I have never met a more gassy cat.

Meko would hop up on my lap, and I’d give her some pettings and lovins, only to be rewarded by a noxious cloud of nasal-death inducing cat fart. Always silent but (butt?) deadly. If I could put up with the smell, Meko would purr and purr.

It got so bad that finally I stopped letting her hop on my lap. I mean seriously: you fart on me once, I laugh. You fart on me twice, you get a reputation. You fart on me repeatedly for a whole afternoon? I’m not stupid, cat. I will not let you sit on me.

I felt bad denying her any affection though, so at one point, as she scrurried by my feet, I hooked my toes under her belly and lifted, giving her a little under-rub.

“Pffffffffffffffffffft” said the kitten’s back end.

“Ariel!” Susannah admonished me through her giggles, as if I’d purposely massaged the cat flatulation out with my foot. For my part, I was horrified. Did her butt really just make that noise?

Then we both squeeled in horror as the room filled with the smell of really bad kitty gas.